others supporting him must be mid-weights; they cannot be making more than twelve miles per hour.’
Laurence paused to convert between knots and miles, then nodded; Temeraire was going almost twice as quickly, then. Taking into account Volly’s speed in bringing the message, they had perhaps three hours before they would need to start looking for the other party. ‘Very good. We may as well use the time; have the topmen and bellmen exchange places for practice, and then I think we will try some gunnery.’
He felt quite calm and settled himself, but he could feel Temeraire’s excitement transmitting itself through a faint twitching along the back of his neck; of course this was Temeraire’s first action, of any sort, and Laurence stroked the twitching ridge soothingly. He swapped around his carabiners and turned to observe the manoeuvres he had ordered. In sequence, a topman climbed down to the belly rigging at the same time as a bellman climbed up to the back on the other side, the two weights balancing each other. As the man who had just climbed up locked himself into place, he tugged on the signal strap, coloured in alternating sections of black and white, and pulled it ahead a section; in a moment it advanced again, indicating that the man below had locked him self in as well. All went smoothly: Temeraire was presently carrying three topmen and three bellmen, and the exchange took less than five minutes all told.
‘Mr. Allen,’ Laurence said sharply, calling one of the lookouts to order: an older cadet, soon to be made ensign, neglecting his duty to watch the other men at their work. ‘Can you tell me what is in the upper-northwest? No, do not turn around and look; you must be able to answer that question the moment it is asked. I will speak with your instructor; mind your work now.’
The riflemen took up their positions, and Laurence nodded to Granby to give the order; the topmen began throwing out the flat ceramic discs used for targeting, and the riflemen took turns attempting to shoot them out of the air as they flew past. Laurence watched and frowned. ‘Mr. Granby, Mr. Riggs, I make twelve targets out of twenty; you concur? Gentlemen, I hope I need not say that this will not do against French sharpshooters. Let us begin again, at a slower rate: precision first, speed second, Mr. Collins, so pray do not be so hasty.’
He kept them at it for a full hour, then had the hands go through the complicated harness adjustments for storm flying; afterwards he himself went down below and observed the men stationed below while they reverted to fair-weather rigging. They did not have the tents aboard, so he could not have them practice going to quarters and breaking down full gear, but they did well enough at the rigging changes, and he thought they would have done well even with the additional equipment.
Temeraire occasionally glanced around to watch throughout these manoeuvres, his eyes bright; but for the most part he was intent on his flying, rising and falling in the air to catch the best currents, driving himself forward with great steady beats, each thrust fully carried through. Laurence laid his hand upon the long, ropy muscles of Temeraire’s neck, feeling them move smoothly as though oiled beneath the skin, and was not tempted to distract him with conversation; there was no need. He knew without speaking that Temeraire shared his satisfaction at putting their joint training to real purpose at last. Laurence had not wholly realized his own sense of quiet frustration to have been in some sense demoted from a serving officer to a schoolboy, until he now found himself again engaged in active duty.
The three hours were nearly up by the chronometer, and it was time to begin preparing to give support to the injured dragon; Maximus was perhaps half an hour behind them, and Temeraire would have to carry Victoriatus alone until the Regal Copper caught up. ‘Mr. Granby,’ Laurence said, as he latched himself back into his normal position at the base of the neck, ‘Let us clear the back; all the men below, save for the signal-ensign and the forward lookouts.’
‘Very good, sir,’ Granby said, nodding, and turned at once to arrange it. Laurence watched him work with mingled satisfaction and irritation. For the first time in the past week, Granby had been going about his duties without that air of stiff resentment, and Laurence could easily perceive the effects: the speed of nearly every operation improved; a myriad of small defects in harness placement and crew positioning, previously invisible to his own inexperienced eye, now corrected; the atmosphere among the men more relaxed. All the many ways in which an excellent first lieutenant could improve the life of a crew, and Granby was now proven capable of them all, but that only made his attitude more regrettable.
Volatilus turned and came flying back towards them only shortly after they had cleared the top; James pulled him around and cupped his hands around his mouth to call to Laurence. ‘I’ve sighted them, two points to the north and twelve degrees down; you’ll need to drop to come up under them, for I don’t think he can get any more elevation.’ He signalled the numbers with hand gestures as he spoke.
‘Very good,’ Laurence called back, through his speaking-trumpet, and had the signal-ensign wave a confirmation with flags; Temeraire was large enough now that Volly could not get so close as to make verbal communication certain.
Temeraire stooped into a dive at his quick signal, and very soon Laurence saw a speck on the horizon rapidly enlarge into the group of dragons. Victoriatus was instantly identifiable; he was larger by half than either of the two Yellow Reapers struggling to keep him aloft. Though the injuries were already under thick bandages applied by his crew, blood had seeped through showing the slashing marks where the dragon had evidently taken blows from the enemy beasts. The Parnassian’s own claws were unusually large, and stained with blood as well; his jaws also. The smaller dragons below looked crowded, and there was no one aboard the injured dragon but his captain and perhaps a half-dozen men.
‘Signal the two supporters: prepare to stand aside,’ Laurence said; the young signal-ensign waved the coloured flags in rapid sequence, and a prompt acknowledgement came back. Temeraire had already flown around the group and positioned himself properly: he was just below and to the back of the second supporting dragon.
‘Temeraire, are you quite ready?’ Laurence called. They had practiced this manoeuvre in training, but it would be unusually difficult to carry out here: the injured dragon was barely beating his wings, and his eyes were half-shut with pain and exhaustion; the two supporters were clearly worn out themselves. They would have to drop out of the way smoothly, and Temeraire dart in very quickly, to avoid having Victoriatus collapse into a deadly plummet that would be impossible to arrest.
‘Yes; please let us hurry, they look so very tired,’ Temeraire said, glancing back. His muscles were tightly gathered, they had matched the others’ pace, and nothing more could be gained by waiting.
‘Signal: exchange positions on lead dragon’s mark,’ Laurence said. The flags waved; the acknowledgement came. Then on both sides of the foremost of the two supporting dragons, the red flags went out, and then were swapped for the green.
The rear dragon dropped and peeled aside swiftly as Temeraire lunged. But the forward dragon went a little too slowly, his wings stuttering, and Victoriatus began to tilt forward as the Reaper tried to descend away and make room. ‘Dive, damn you, dive!’ Laurence roared at the top of his lungs; the smaller dragon’s lashing tail was dangerously near Temeraire’s head, and they could not move any farther forward.
The Reaper gave up the manoeuvre and simply folded his wings; he dropped out of the way like a stone. ‘Temeraire, you must get him up a little so you can come forward,’ Laurence shouted again, crouched low against the neck; Victoriatus’s hindquarters had settled over Temeraire’s shoulders instead of further back, and the great belly was less than three feet overhead, barely kept up by the injured dragon’s waning strength.
Temeraire showed with a bob of his head that he had heard and understood; he beat up rapidly at an angle, pushing the slumping Parnassian back up higher through sheer strength, then snapped his wings closed. A brief, sickening drop: then his wings fanned out again. With a single great thrust, Temeraire
